


By Any Other Name

by curiousair



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Blow Jobs, Bottom Richie Tozier, College, Dialogue Heavy, Dom/sub Undertones, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Little Shit, Everyone Is Sort Of An Asshole, Everyone is a Slut, Facials, Fraternities & Sororities, House Party, M/M, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Smut, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiousair/pseuds/curiousair
Summary: "Just a taste," Pretty Boy says, and wraps his lips around the top of the beer bottle between Eddie's thighs. He dips his tongue into the opening, curling it around the rim, looks up at Eddie from under his long dark eyelashes, and says, "Unless you'd let me have more."
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 25
Kudos: 206





	By Any Other Name

“They hand it to you and it’s cold and the bottle has condensation on it and shit and you look at the label and you’re like ‘great, fuck yeah, this should be pretty refreshing’ but oh boy are you wrong. With a name like Peach Please, you would think it wouldn’t taste like dry piss. I wouldn’t be so fucking offended if it had better alcohol content. Six percent? What am I? A fucking 15 year old at homecoming? Suck my dick. What’s even worse is the guys who get their briefs in a bunch about it treat it like a personality trait. Oh, you can tell what kind of hops is in it by scent alone? Aren’t you fucking special and smart, can’t wait to spit your bitter ejaculate into a trash can without a liner because you haven’t drank water in 72 hours and have no home training.”

Eddie glances around at the crowded kitchen, disgusted at the scene before him. It’s isn’t the trashiness that turns him off, it’s that most people here pretend they aren’t. The least they could fucking do is be honest. No one shows up to these things for  _ good clean fun_. You walk in and every illusion of inhibition is lost, and Eddie is of the humble opinion that everyone should stop acting as if they aren’t a drink or two away from giving a sloppy handjob or getting fingered in a cobwebbed tool shed. 

In the corner, near the sliding glass door leading to the string-lit back patio, there’s a guy standing next to a redhead doing a kegstand, giving him eyes. If he’s a closet case, Eddie could take him to the coat closet in the foyer to keep him on the DL. Eddie winks at him, and takes another drink of the warm piss beer. This won’t take much work. About 90 percent of frat guys are identical in look, behavior, and attitude, which would seem like a gross overestimation if it weren’t for all the research Eddie has put into it. At this point, he should be an honorary member of half the houses on Greek row. All the parties are the same, breeding grounds for underage drinking, STDs, and fist fights, bound to get shut down by the cops before midnight. Eddie looks down at the time on his phone—he’s got about thirty minutes.

Mike, who’s on his fourth pissy beer, licks the seam of his blunt and says, “You should be a comedian.”

“Yeah, I’ll move downtown, develop a coke habit, suck off one of the guys who scouts for the Laugh Factory so I can be on my way to shit talking a crowd every night for pennies while I fuck models way out of my league and pretend I give a single shit about craft beer,” Eddie says, setting his beer bottle on the chair between his thighs. “This shit is awful. I should know better by now.”

Eddie has been to this specific house before. It’s run by new President, Bill Denbrough, who has a personal vendetta against Eddie for a reason Eddie is too proud to admit he doesn’t remember. Regardless, it’s been about four years and they fight every time they see each other. The last time he showed up here, he got thrown out before he could finish the fight Bill started, climbed back in through a window, did whip-its with a girl who had blue eyebrows, and brawled with Bill in the backyard. 

He’s here tonight because Stan, another member of the fraternity, is paying him to write his philosophy papers. Eddie had decided that it wouldn’t be fair if he didn’t get an invite to one of their shitty little ragers as part of the deal. Earlier, he had convinced himself it could be the beginnings of a truce rather than an excuse to get out and act up.

“You know…when you get angry...” Mike says, and trails off, sticking his blunt behind his ear. He pauses and scoots in his chair to let a crowd of girls walk by. All five of them do double takes and Mike winks at them, sending them scurrying and giggling. “When you get really angry, you get this really big vein that pops out right here.” Mike taps his neck, next to his adam’s apple. “It’s concerning.”

In theory, Eddie should be in a good mood. But, on the way over he got a text from his friend-with-benefits saying they wanted to end things. “Fuck off,” he mutters, and starts flipping through his mental rolodex of potential hook-up partners. Fleetingly, he thinks that maybe Stan would be down to hook up. Or Mike, if he weren’t perpetually ready to fall on Bill’s cock only to end up going back to Ben From Starbucks’ apartment at the end of the night. Hell, Eddie would even settle for Bill if he were drunk enough. 

He sighs, looks over at the keg again and the dude that has been eye-fucking him for the past hour is making his way over. He’s in a stupid, hot pink backwards cap with dark curls sticking out of the back and sides, refusing to be tamed. Up close, he’s pretty in a goofy, quirky sort of way, sleepy blue eyes, dilated pupils, pink lips, buck teeth, and patchy stubble. He almost looks familiar, but a lot of tall white dudes in their party get-up start to blur together after a while. In his crisp white button down with the short sleeves cuffed, jeans with a hole in the knee—manufactured and bought at Hollister or some shit, not made organically while hopping a fence to run from the cops—he looks like a someone who’d fuck Eddie in the back seat of his parent’s luxury car and call him a slur afterwards with jizz on his breath. Unfortunately, he’s exactly Eddie’s type. 

The guy swipes a thumb over his lower lip and opens with: “Hey.”

Eddie smiles, and waits for him to come up with something better.

“Overheard you talking about your beer,” the guy says, his voice low under the din in the room. “Can I get you something different?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie says, because he does this every time. These guys like having to prove that they’re different, that they can talk  _ anyone _ into bed. It will never take as much convincing as they seem to think it does because half the people in here are wet before they get to the doorstep. “Thanks though.”

"Can I taste?" Pretty Boy takes a step closer, looking down at Eddie’s lap. There's an intoxicating mix of heat and a fresh, piney scent radiating from him, a distracting shine in his eyes. “Your beer," he adds, by way of explanation, and lowers himself to his knees at Eddie's feet.

"Oh," Eddie says. " _Okay_."

Mike laughs, takes out his phone and points it at them. “Oh, shit.”

"Just a taste," Pretty Boy says, and wraps his lips around the top of the beer bottle between Eddie's thighs. He dips his tongue into the opening, curling it around the rim, looks up at Eddie from under his long dark eyelashes, and says, "Unless you'd let me have more." 

Then, right here in the middle of a frat house kitchen, kneeling on the sticky tile floor, he slides his hands up Eddie's thighs, ducks his head and takes more of the bottle into his mouth. He bobs his head, lips stretched around the thick neck, and Eddie goes from soft to rock hard so fast that he gets lightheaded. People have gone to much further lengths to impress him, but deepthroating a beer bottle in front of dozens of people while they record might be the most slutty. If anything, Eddie appreciates a good slut. He stares down at Pretty Slut, who looks like his name could be Brett with two Ts, Scot with one T, or Ryder with a fucking Y, and decides maybe he wouldn't mind pulling his hair and slapping him around a bit if the opportunity ever presented itself.

Brett with two Ts licks up the side of the bottle, looks Eddie square in the eyes, and says, "Tell me what you want."

"Get up," Eddie says, adrenaline pumping through him. Brett with two Ts does as he's told, clambering to his feet, practically panting.

"Hold my beer," Eddie says, and Brett with two Ts does with a crooked smile.

"Good boy." Eddie stands up and pats his cheek, rubbing a thumb over his lips. His tongue follows the movement, swiping between his lips to taste Eddie's skin. Eddie grins, delighted. "Take me upstairs."

Mike puts his phone down and literally claps his hands. “Amazing, Eddie. I love this for you.”

Eddie follows Scot with one T through the crowd, up the stairs and into a half bathroom about the size of a phone booth.

“Gotta make it quick, there’s no lock.” 

Scot with one T sets the beer down and walks Eddie into the door, one hand on his shoulder and the other trailing down his chest. "Got it," he whispers, hot against Eddie's lips and the tension snaps like a rubber band. Eddie grabs him by the front of his shirt and kisses him, licking into his big fucking mouth, his ridged palate, the soft inside of his lower lip, the smooth underside of his tongue. He knocks their hips together, his hard dick against Scot with one T's thigh, hoping he gets the hint. His big hand gropes Eddie through his tight jeans. Eddie rucks up the shirt and feels up the guy's lanky body. He's soft around the belly, with a trail of hair under his pale navel, and Eddie wouldn't mind marking him up a little.

Ryder with a Y pops the button on Eddie's jeans and slips his hand into Eddie's boxers, wrapping around him immediately, rough and eager. "I want to suck you off so fucking bad."

Eddie can't help but laugh, going a little dizzy at the grip around his dick. "I couldn't tell," he says, and forces Ryder with a Y down to his knees.

Not only does he go easily, he whips out his big dick, spits in his hand and starts stroking himself. 

"Jesus Fucking Christ," Eddie mutters, and cups him by the back of his neck. He parts his lips, flicks his gaze up at Eddie, as if asking for permission. Briefly, Eddie thinks about making him say please, but decides against it, guiding himself into the waiting mouth. His cheeks hollow immediately, tongue pressed tight against the underside of Eddie's dick, and he pulls off nearly all the way to drag the tip against the sensitive head, pulling precum under his tongue. Eddie shivers, stuck between slowing him down and grabbing him by the ears to use him like a human fleshlight, and his phone vibrates in his back pocket.

Ryder with a Y keeps doing his job, slurping and sucking like he owes Eddie money, and Eddie wiggles his phone out, having to read the message three times to comprehend it.

**Mike:** _good luck with the 🍆 gonna go to the shed w/ ben from starbucks. btw bill saw you going upstairs w his friend i guess and is incensed. its kinda hot_. 

Eddie grips Ryder with a Y’s jaw long enough to concentrate on sending Mike a thumbs up emoji, and within seconds, there’s banging on the door. Then comes Bill's deranged, high-pitched shouting, which never fails to amuse Eddie.

“Hey, fuckface. I don’t remember inviting you. You better find a way to disappear because if I see your face, I’m kicking the shit out of you.” 

“Sorry.” Eddie huffs out a laugh, sets his phone on the counter, and drops his hands to Ryder with a Y’s broad shoulders. He spreads his fingers to hook both thumbs into his rumpled collar, and thrusts into his mouth. “You got the wrong guy." 

The door hits his back, forcing him forward, and his dick rams into the back of Ryder with Y’s throat. He gags, coughs, and with one hand still working his own dick, slams his palm against the door to keep it shut. Hands free, he opens his jaw wider and swallows Eddie down to the hilt, humming as he does. "Oh, fuck, baby,” Eddie groans, and goes weak in the knees. “You're good at that." 

Ryder with a Y, who is starting to look like a Robbie with an IE, pulls off, gasping and drooling, eyes watering. "Marry me." 

“Gladly,” Eddie says, guiding his dick back into Robbie with an IE’s mouth. "Let me come on your face and I’ll tell you my ring size." 

Robbie with an IE squirms, pumping his hand faster. Eddie’s dick throbs at the sight and the increasing heat in his core, and knocks the stupid hot pink hat off of Robbie with an IE's head to get card through his messy curls. “You're gonna come before I do. That’s so sad," Eddie says, and with a single tug at his hair, Robbie with an IE moans and comes into his fist. 

Eddie pulls out in time to come across his slack mouth and ruddy cheeks, and his shitty aim fails to keep jizz from splashing across Robbie with an IE's nose and left eyelid. He licks his lips, takes Eddie into his mouth again and swallows the last drops.

"Damn, okay," Eddie hisses, nudging him back. "You've made your point."

He smiles through the mess of cum on his face, stands up, and snatches the single towel from the rack. “That was fun,” he says, looking at Eddie in their reflection. He washes his hands, cleans himself off, then sticks his finger in his eye and plucks out his contact. It makes Eddie cringe, even more than the fact that this guy seems to keep his glasses in his pocket without a case like a fucking insane person. 

Coming out of his post-orgasm haze, Eddie stares at the thick rimmed glasses and another sense of familiarity strikes him. He belatedly tucks himself back into his jeans and asks, “Not your first rodeo, huh?” 

“No sir, it isn’t.” With a dazed grin, he turns to face him. “I’m Richie by the way.”

“Richie,” Eddie repeats, as it all comes together. “Nice to meet you.”

He doesn’t  _ know _ Richie, but they’ve met before.

"Did we have a class together or something?” Richie asks. “You look familiar."

They have. Either biology or political science, to which Eddie was late every time and always ended up sitting in the broken desk two seats behind the goofy-looking, buck-toothed, bespectacled guy who never participated in class discussions. But, there's more to Eddie's recollection of Richie. Although he can’t piece together the entire years-old memory, he does remember that everyone involved was drunk, there were punches thrown, and it was a wholly unpleasant experience.

"Don't think so,” Eddie says, as sirens sound from somewhere outside.

“Shit.” Richie steps around the toilet and peers through the tiny window. “Cops.”

"Wanna make a run for it or hide here?" Eddie asks, already considering round two. The perks of being not drunk yet means he can probably come at least two more times tonight if he's determined enough. 

"Well, I live here, unfortunately." Richie sighs, looking Eddie up and down, and his shoulders sag. "So, this looks like the end of the night for us." 

"Bummer." Eddie looks for mouthwash, finds his warm beer instead, and hands it to Richie. "For you."

"How sweet," Richie says, and finishes it off, even though it's flat and mostly backwash.

Eddie kisses him, licking the bitter taste from his swollen lips. "Well, I'm off."

Richie gives him an exaggerated salute. "Godspeed."

"You too," Eddie says, then opens the door and bounds down the stairs.

  
  


Richie steps out of the shower and pulls his phone off the charger. On the screen, there's yet another text informing him that there are multiple videos online of him from last night, in which he's deepthroating a beer bottle in a stranger’s lap. He taps out a response, asking them to send him the best version. Personally, he likes the one that was taken from an overhead angle, likely someone standing on a chair, because it gave everything that 'POV porn' vibe. 

Now, Richie has done worse on camera. His dick, balls and gooch were plastered everywhere for a good two weeks last year, which was unrelated to the video of him skinny dipping in his ex's pool at 5 AM in the dead of winter. He  _ does  _ regret that one, seeing as the discrepancy between his balls in his leaked nudes and his balls in the skinny dipping video caused some confusion. To this day, he finds himself explaining that his nuts do in fact shrink to the size of small prunes when he's cold and his leaked nudes were  _ not  _ photoshopped to make his nuts look plumper.

Downstairs, someone rings the doorbell and in the adjacent room, Bill's voice comes through the wall.

"Answer the door! I'm busy!"

Busy, meaning he's still drunk from last night and he's been shut in his room with Bev and a blonde chick Richie's never seen before since early this morning.

Richie dries his hair, wraps a towel around his hips, and steps out of his bathroom into his shared bedroom. He puts his glasses on, throws open the window, and leans out, craning his neck to look down at the front porch.

Standing there on the steps, finger pressed to the doorbell, is the guy Richie blew last night. 

“Hey,” Richie calls. The guy steps back onto the lawn to look up, giving Richie a clearer view of his face in the light of the late morning sun—doe-eyes, angular jaw, deep dimples, and strong nose. Richie breathes a sigh of relief and thanks God he’s still cute without the help of beer-goggles. "You're the guy from last night...uh… I didn't catch your name?" 

He might have heard it sometime between dropping to his knees in the kitchen and dropping to his knees in the bathroom, something that starts with an E. Short E, as in egg. Then again, he was tipsy and may or may not have done a bump or two, so he could be completely off. 

The guy pulls a hand through his short, disheveled hair and crosses his arms over his wrinkled t-shirt. He’s wearing the same clothes from last night, black from head to toe, and the sleazy implications of it only make Richie more attracted to him. 

"You swallowed my come, asked me to marry you, and drank the spit at the bottom of my beer bottle and you don't remember my name?" 

Richie props his elbows on the window ledge. “Well, what’s in a name, anyway?” 

The guy smirks, tilts his head to the side in a way that shouldn’t give Richie butterflies. "I left my phone in your bathroom." 

“Do you want to come in or do you want me to find your phone and toss it down?” 

"I'd like to come in."

Richie grins, a breeze floats by and cools his damp, heated skin, and he pulls his towel tighter around his hips. 

“You gonna let me in through the front door?” the guy asks, and even from ten feet up, his dark gaze is intense. “Or does your husband-to-be have to climb up the trellis and in through the window?” 

The thing is, Richie is attracted to people that might not be great for him. The type that are a little cocky, the type to make him feel like shit for not having read every single one of David Foster Wallace’s works or listened to Animal Collective’s entire discography. The type to fuck him senseless, leave him reeling over it for days, and never text him back. Anyway, he's pretty sure he’s in love. He's beyond the point of trying to talk himself out of it every time it happens, even if it always ends in disappointment. There'll always be another guy in black skinny jeans around with good dick, and bad attitude, and absolutely no love to give. 

"How about this,” Richie offers. “I just stretched and cleaned myself out and I want you to fuck me six ways to Sunday.” 

The guy doesn’t even blink, just stares in the unwavering way that drew Richie in. “What’s today?” 

Richie ducks his head inside and glances at his calendar hanging next to the window. “Friday.” 

“Well,” the guy says, stroking his chin. “I’m hungover as shit and late for work probably, but I think I could manage. Fucking you six ways to Sunday, that is.” 

“Great.” Richie practically sprints down the stairs with his hair dripping water down his back and the towel around his waist threatening to fly open, and throws open the front door, unable to tame his smile. “Hey.”

He looks Richie up and down and steps into the foyer past him, and it’s a little disappointing that he refrains from commenting on Richie’s bare chest or the fact that the outline of his dick is clearly visible through the towel.

“I saw that video of your little performance last night,” he says instead, both hands in his pockets, reserved and cool as if he weren’t pulling Richie’s hair and calling him baby ten hours ago.

“Yeah? I know you had a front row seat, but what’d you think? Any notes?”

“Evocative, if not a little exaggerated. Nine out of ten.”

“Great." Richie leads him to the shelf at the base of the stairs, opens the top drawer, and waves a hand at the pile of lost phones. “You know I was thinking if the tech industry doesn't work out, I could always do porn for six months, drag out my fifteen minutes of fame and start a podcast sponsored by dick pills and lube."

The guy chuckles and reaches into the drawer, taking out a phone with a matte black case and holographic sticker on the back. “Oh, thank god.”

Richie clears his throat and says, “So, you wanna remind me what your name is?"

“No,” he answers simply, tapping in his passcode. The corners of his lips lift into a barely there smile, he types out a text with lightning speed, and sticks the phone in his pocket. He takes a step backwards towards the stairs and quirks an eyebrow, pure fucking mischief, and it only makes Richie more susceptible to dropping a few grand and whisking him away for a tropical vacation. “Wanna take me to your room and show me what’s under the towel?”

Richie bites back the ‘yes sir’ on the tip of his tongue and leads him up the stairs. 

In the hallway, Stan is doing a poor job of sweeping up broken glass. He’s in his boxers and what looks like a woman's crop top, meaning his shirt must be on the girl who snuck out this morning. They have a chapter meeting today, and as the reluctant secretary Stan is going to make his displeasure everyone else’s problem. Richie doesn’t envy him—since graduating from house manager to VP, he’s just a jackass with a fancy title. Stan grumbles a greeting to Richie and to Richie’s  _ mystery man, _ he says, "Hey, how's my paper going?" 

"I haven't written it yet,” Richie’s mystery man says, and something about his nonchalance makes Richie’s dick twitch. Suddenly, he’s got a chubby and he’s mentally calculating which of his credit cards he can max out to buy an engagement ring without his dad calling to lecture him about financial responsibility. 

Stan lets out a weary sigh and drops the broom in the corner, leaving shards of glass in a neat pile. "It's due at midnight." 

“Yeah, and?” Richie’s future husband shrugs. "Ask me at like eleven."

"Alright, good talk." Richie takes his hand and leads him down the hall and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. It’s messy, his laundry basket is overflowing, his twin bed is unmade, and the mirrored closet door has questionable stains on it. The only saving grace is that it doesn’t smell like B.O. and his roommate isn’t home.

A long, drawn-out moan breaks the silence, coming from Bill’s room next door. 

“So,” Richie's future husband says, idling near the bed.

“So,” Richie says, and unceremoniously drops his towel. Anticipation alone has him fully hard, curving up towards his belly, aching to be touched.

They meet in the middle, Richie’s future husband grabs him by the dick before anything else and just  _ holds him there_, kissing him as messy and deep as last night. He squeezes Richie's balls in his hand, strokes his dick just once, then pulls away, licking pre-cum off his palm, and pushes Richie backwards.

"I just realized," Richie says, flopping onto the bed. "You never actually  _ told _ me your name. You can't fault me for not remembering it." 

"Sure I can," he says, kicking off his shoes. "Maybe my dick in your ass will jog your memory."

Richie rolls over onto his belly, grinding a bit into his bunched up comforter. “Condoms and stuff are in that box...Eric?” Sounds close enough. Two syllables. Common. Inoffensive. No one'll get  _ upset _ for being told they look like an Eric.

“Nope.” Not Eric digs through the box on Richie’s nightstand and throws a single condom and a bottle of lube on the bed, narrowly missing Richie's head. He takes off his shirt, revealing a barbell through his left nipple and a black and grey floral tattoo over his left pec. There's a little more meat on his bones than Richie initially thought, some lean muscle that he’d do anything to sink his teeth into.

“You’re kind of a twunk.”

“I’m not, but sure, thanks,” he says, and peels off his jeans and socks.

“Let me compliment you.” Richie says, edging on pleading, and he may as well stick his bottom lip out and bat his eyelashes while he's at it.

Not Eric cups his hard dick through his boxers. “If you want to compliment me, just tell me I’m hot and that I have a big dick.” 

Richie scoots over on the bed, pulls Not Eric closer by the hips, and tugs the waistband of his boxers down under his balls. “You’re hot and you have a big dick," Richie breathes, eye to eye with a string of precum dripping off the head of his dick, and guides it into his mouth, taking in as much as he can in this position. It's thick, but it isn't actually  _big_. Richie would say that Not Eric has a fairly average sized dick. Granted, Richie’s idea of average may be skewed. Stan’s dick is a solid eight and a half inches, a good half inch bigger than his—which made him a little jealous during the two or three times he and Stan fooled around last fall—and Bill’s is probably closer to five than the ‘average’ six he brags about when he’s drunk. 

Richie curls his tongue, breathes in through his nose, and it's a riper scent than last night, just the right amount of gross to turn Richie on. He squeezes Not Eric’s thighs, slides both hands up to his taut stomach, and licks a stripe up the length of his dick. “Your name is Evan,” he decides, on a whim.

Evan is kind of a cool name. Like the bad boy in every teen movie. An  _ Evan _ could have tattoos and piercings. 

“Wrong,” Not Evan says, then drops his boxers, pushes Richie over on the bed, and climbs on top of him. He slots himself between Richie's legs, licks and bites up Richie's chest and throat, sucking a bruise under his earlobe, and pins his arms over his head.

Muffled in the bruising kiss, Richie says, “You’re so fucking hot, I want you to bully me." He looks up into dark eyes and says the first name that pops into his shit brain. "Everett?" 

"Who the fuck is named Everett?" he asks, sputtering laughter. “Do I look like a fucking  _Everett_?”

"My cousin’s name is Everett," Richie mutters. “It’s a nice name.”

"Okay, cousin fucker," Not Everett says, sitting back on his heels. "Roll over. Hands and knees." He manhandles Richie into position, deceptively strong even though Richie basically turned to putty the second the guy grabbed his dick and tugged him forward like a dog on a leash. 

Soon, but not soon enough, his cheeks are spread and there’s cold lube dripping down his crack and his inner thighs, the slippery feel of latex against his puckering hole. He opens his legs wider and exhales as the head of Not Everett’s dick slips past his rim. The impossibly full feeling always takes a few minutes to get used to, but the tinge of discomfort is part of the appeal, knowing that someone else is behind him, controlling the pace and depth. It’s slow at first, a tame rhythm, before he relaxes and starts to rock back against the shallow thrusts. 

"Shit, look at you." 

Richie looks to his right, catching their reflection in the closet door, and is glad he left his glasses on. He's flushed down to his shoulders, shaking already, and the visual of a dick sliding in and out of him makes his mouth water. He isn't averse to watching himself, but the people he brings home usually are, meaning he's always fucking in the dark or watching the scrunched eyelids of someone who refuses to look at themselves. "Oh, my god. You're so fucking-" Richie groans and they lock eyes in the mirror. He's transfixed by it, thrilled that it seems he's met his match, or at least someone with as little shame as him. Someone who'll get right to the point, fucking him hard enough to make him see stars, biceps flexing, muscular thighs, white-knuckled grip on his ass. "Fuck, this is hot." 

"You look like a fucking porn star. Can you moan like one too?" Not Everett grabs a fistful of Richie's hair, knuckles to his scalp, and yanks his head back. The moan rips out of him, coming out in a breathy staccato as Not Everett picks up the pace and jackhammers into him, then places a hand between his shoulder blades and shoves him so he's face down ass up. The bed creaks, background noise to the obscene slap of skin on skin, the mix of low moans, whines, and harsh breathing. Richie turns his head to watch himself and knows he's as narcissistic as they come because his first thought is  _ fuck, I look good_. His hair is drying fluffy and curly, he's trembling, mouth open wide, eyes half lidded. He arches his back, rocking back and forward on his knees faster to meet the thrusts, and watches his dick swinging and leaking between his thighs. He'd film this and show all of his friends if he could. He'd sell the rights if it meant  _ everyone _ could see how good he looks while he's getting fucked. He'd jack off to this every day until he couldn't get it up anymore, then he'd live with a vibrator up his ass and milk himself that way until he's dry.

"Gonna come," Richie says, and gets a hand around himself with about ten seconds to spare, trembling and whining, spurting over his fist, then he collapses onto his belly into a pool of his own jizz. With his head smushed into the pillow, he guesses, "Ellis?"

"Not quite," Not Ellis says, without a hitch in his voice. "You always come this fast or am I that good?"

To be quite honest, he always comes fast. Whether he's choking his dick in his hand, getting sucked off, or getting fucked bent over the back of a couch, he'll nut within five minutes. People tend to take credit for it, whispering filthy nothings in his ear,  _ fuck yeah, I did that, I fucked you so good_, when in reality he's just a sack of bones and fat, made up of millions of nerve endings, entirely devoted to making him come.

"No," Richie says, grunting at the delicious ache between his legs. "It's all you."

Lucky for Richie, coming fast means he has more time to give head. He's fully prepared for this guy to pull out, roll him over, straddle him, and stick his dick in Richie's mouth. But, he doesn't. Not Ellis forces Richie's legs open, drapes himself over Richie's back, wraps both arms around him to squeeze his chest and grinds into him in slow, deep circles. "You're fucking made for this," he whispers, and kisses the back of Richie's neck, pulsating inside of him.

When he pulls out and climbs off the bed, Richie rolls over and the sheet sticks to his stomach. "Oh, wow."

"Wow," Not Ellis echoes, and holds out the used condom, glancing around the room for a place to deposit it.

"I got it," Richie says, plucking it from his fingers. He shuffles into the bathroom to drop it in the trash can and wash his hands, feeling like a chenille wire bent into a pretzel shape and straightened out again. 

When Richie returns, Not Ellis is sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers and t-shirt. 

"It's Edwin," Richie says, throwing caution to the wind. 

A smile, a head shake. “We  _ did _ have a class together. Freshman year. Fall semester. Though you weren’t as cute then.” 

“First of all, fuck you," Richie says, still tingling, half braindead. Sweat is cooling on his skin, his ass feels too empty, and he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit outloud that he’d jump back in bed with this semi-stranger in a heartbeat. "Second...fuck you. Why lie?" 

“Do you remember your twinky friend Bill getting into a fight in a cul de sac at like one in the morning?" Not Edwin asks casually, pulling on his socks. "A few years back, sometime around Halloween?” 

Almost four years ago, Richie was an embarrassing lightweight with a penchant for showing up in costume to every party held in October. He was drunk off his ass and dressed as Han Solo, likely flirting with someone who had no interest in him, when he had to drop everything, run outside, and help break up a fight between Bill and...whatever this fucking guy's name is. Next thing Richie knew, he had a bloody nose and broken glasses. 

“What the fuck?” Richie, standing naked and well-fucked in the middle of his bedroom, looks at this smirking shithead sitting in front of him and distinctly remembers the wild flurry of fists that smashed his glasses into his face. "That was  _ you_?” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me. But, you were pretty fucked up if I recall.” 

“Dude, that’s fucked up. I was half blind for like a week." 

“Oh, boo-hoo, you spent a  _ grueling _ seven days without glasses and got daddy to buy you a brand new, hipster pair.” Whatshisname rolls his eyes and shrugs. "It was an  _ accident_. I'm deeply sorry."

Richie isn’t upset about the glasses, he’s upset because he still wants this little fucking weasel to spank him and choke him out.

"So fucking what, dude. It's the  _ principle._"

“Give me a fucking break," Whatshisname scoffs. "You carry your glasses in your front pocket  _ dude_, don’t act like you treat your important personal possessions with care and respect.” 

"I-" 

“Don’t.” Whatshisname holds up a hand, and motions to Richie’s dick. "I know you aren't nearly as upset as you're trying to seem. You're already hard again just from me berating you." 

“So, are you just gonna keep berating me?” Richie steps forward and stands between his thighs, reaches out a hand to touch his cheek. “Or, are you gonna do something about it.”

"I'm a biter," Whatshisname says, turning his face into Richie's hand to kiss his palm.

Richie dips a thumb into one of his dimples. "Promise?"

Whatshisname wraps his lips around the head of Richie's dick and swirls his tongue like the tease he isn't, looking bored and unimpressed. Then he stands up and kisses the corner of Richie’s mouth. “Alright, I gotta go.” 

Richie blinks, reaching for him a second too late. He's at the foot of the bed already, putting on his jeans. “Wait-” 

“What, you want me to stay until your asshole shrinks back to its regular size?” Whatshisname asks, stepping into his shoes. “Fine. Better start doing your kegels, buddy. I have places to be.” 

"Let me have your number," Richie says, and wishes his boner weren't present for this conversation. Begging someone for their number while you're hard definitely adds to the pathetic factor. "I'll take you out."

“No,” Whatshisname says, and heads for the door.

Richie gets there first, blocking him from leaving. "Please?" 

"No means no. Didn't they teach you that when you pledged?" 

"C'mon,” Richie pleads, with no real argument to follow. Hopefully, he looks cute and pathetic enough to get what he wants. Usually, that works out well for him. Or he can start throwing money, which is just as effective.

Instead, he earns another breezy  _ no_, and a flick on the nose. "Bad." 

Richie follows him to the window, where he’s already straddling the ledge, and grabs his wrist. "At least tell me your name." 

"I will scream,” Whatshisname warns, laughter in his voice. “Is that what you want?”

"Fine,” Richie says, no heat behind it, and lets him go. "You're an asshole and your dick is average at best."

"Is that any way to talk to your  _ fiance_?" He  _ tsks_, leans in, and gives Richie a chaste kiss. Speaking right against Richie lips, he says, "It's Eddie, by the way. You were so close."

"That's…” Richie says, his cheeks going warm. “That’s actually a really fucking average name. It suits you." 

Eddie scoffs and nips Richie's lip with his teeth. "Fuck off." 

Richie smiles, ducks his head for a kiss that Eddie dodges. "You want me.”

"Can't stand you." Eddie glares at him and leans for the kiss he rejected. Richie grins and leans back, letting Eddie chase him. Eddie cups the back of Richie's neck and smashes their lips together once more, then swings his other leg over the ledge. "Goodbye." 

Richie watches Eddie climb down the trellis, hop over the trampled garden, and cross the lawn. With a wistful sigh, he starts to close the window but stops in the middle of the movement, his eyes scanning his whiteboard calendar. In place of this week’s schedule, there’s Eddie’s name with an X next to it. Scrawled messily beneath it, there’s a phone number.

“Hey!” Richie leans out of the window, nearly throwing himself over the ledge. 

Eddie stops at a little red car parked on the street and turns back to the house. 

“How's next Friday sound?” Richie calls out, heart racing. “For our wedding." 

Eddie’s smile is bright, even from across the street. "We'll go ring shopping on Tuesday." 

“Great. I’ll text you." Buzzing, Richie watches Eddie go. Then he sits on the edge of his bed with his phone, adds Eddie's name with an X to his contacts, and stares out through his window, deciding to leave it open.

**Author's Note:**

> yo i'm on twitter as curiousair


End file.
